Cologne

(Petrichor)

My cologne

smells of

dried gum

automobile exhaust

and wet asphalt

clipped grass

jasmine and rosemary

candywrappers

pigeon feathers

and cigarettes.

Inhale the city's

essence

and I'm there

Even though you

launder that shirt

you lent me

even though you

scrub your sheets

burn cleansing sage

in your room

and sprinkle vinegar

on the cooled tiles,

Our linkup can't be broken

not by soap

or prayers, not by rituals

not even by death

Not even by exploding suns.

Suspended in the air

my cologne will linger

recalling you

to the streets

and you will find yourself

staring out of your window

trying to pick me out

of the indifferent crowd.

My cologne,

swirling pungent and sweet

will hold my place;

it will follow into your dreams

you will reach for my hand

in your sleep

I know you will.

Poem: The Poverty Of Men

We need all the love

in the world

And must pretend

we need nothing.

We need a mother’s

Warm arms to hold us

so tightly

and are told “no”

we must not care.

Holding back is

a way of life

until the spaces

shrink

into a cramp

Pain leaps out, rage

pours into the streets

guns blaze and wars

begin again.

The poverty of men

the calf tied for slaughter

watching from glassy  eyes

options diminishing, gone

the ropes pull tighter.

What would it take

For poverty to grow

Into riches?

A fall into the river?

A night of drumming?

To shed cocoons at last?

Man,

look into your damaged heart

the blood leaks out

trickles down a starched shirt.

Here it is! The final moment!

But your lips

are still tightly pressed together

in a murmur of pride. denial

even as you see your sons

 run from you

with sword in hand

Their saddened dreams

singing your funeral songs.

Digital Art: Dryad

Click to see larger image.



Poem: The Meditation Bell

(Over Land)

the drone

draws

me

down,

down

into

myself

so I can

open my eyes

to the dance of vibrating

particles smoothly moving

and carrying all before them

in singing surges, waves made

by the churning of the up and down

current swirling into banks of clarity

where lizards can live eternities in sweet

brittlebush horizons, blinking and scurrying before

the smell of clean sand scouring away time that built

a million forevers; to sit chanting to and wonder how great

the picture I’ve been daubed on, leaving the mark of the organism

in the debris trailing behind like a comet’s tail sizzling and burning

brightly—

it is here,

in this moment,

the only moment,

that I can see

the eye of

God,

the dance, so fierce and buoyant, play on, play on

sitting cross-legged, singing Hosannas

in the desert sun.